


The Sounds and Sights of the Southside

by elisimo2204



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, lots of italics, rest of the gallagher clan is mentioned, they just might, two boys hanging out, will they talk about feelings?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisimo2204/pseuds/elisimo2204
Summary: Carl could just leave, should probably cause he's shitty company right now, but he's a bit curious despite himself.“I didn't think you ran old man.” He smirks a little when Mickey frowns.“What else do you think there is to do in prison?” Carl shrugs, fair enough. “I could probably outlast you any day of the week, Cadet Kelly.”Carl balks at the nickname, then grins. “Okay, you're on Prison Break.”---Carl and Mickey bonding over the changes to the Gallagher household in season 10
Relationships: Carl Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 10
Kudos: 114





	The Sounds and Sights of the Southside

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, long-time reader, first-time poster here. I've been obsessed with Shameless recently and had some feelings about Carl, so I wrote them out. I also happen to be a huge sucker for a Mickey & Carl friendship so that's basically what started all this. They're probably a little out of character but I tried my best. This takes place in my little head between season 10 and season 11.
> 
> Possible triggers for an anxiety attack and brief mention of blood its nothing graphic just covering my bases.
> 
> thanks for clicking on this monster hope you enjoy :)

Carl dropped his duffle in the chair, wincing a bit as he opened the fridge for a beer. Being an almost cop kinda sucked. They did nothing fun in class, just drills, lifts, and running. Sparing was okay, but it took the thrill out of fighting, practicing predetermined holds and defensives for specific moves. And it always fuckin’ ran late. They were supposed to get out at 8, ended up out at 9, left the building at 9:30, home around 10. The ache in his muscles came to a head as he settled in the kitchen chair with his beer held against his chin. His sparing partner had caught him off guard a little during a drill, which pissed him off more than he can explain since he is _never_ caught off guard, especially during a fight. Carl’s eyes had widened and so did the guys he was sparring with. Everyone had learned Carl was a little too eager to hit back and the guy winced when he saw the swing coming. The instructors had picked up on it too, most of them content to watch as Carl punched a fellow cadet into next week.

A hand grabbed his fist right before it hit his mark. He rolled his eyes a little. “Get your head in the game Gallagher, don't blame Stevens for you not paying attention.” Officer Matthews never had the patience for Carl’s quick defense, saying he couldn't hit people he was supposed to be on the same side with. That never adds up because _Southside_ rules are you hit anyone who wronged you (I mean, look how many times he’s punched Debbie?), so Officer Matthews seemed to be the only instructor who disagreed with that rule.

Carl got 50 push-ups tacked on to the 100 they already did at the end of training. Stevens kept a wide berth in the locker room. The punch wasn't even that strong, but it had a slight uppercut that knocked Carl’s jaws together. The cold beer bottle soothed the ache a bit.

The stairs creaked, snapping Carl's eyes up just in time to see Ian holding Mickey’s midsection to his back as they came down the final steps. Mickey spun and kissed Ian deeply, both of them smiling into the kiss. Both of them were also only in boxers.

“ _Jesus_ , gross! Take that shit back upstairs.” Carl scoffed, averting his eyes but seeing both of them flip him off in his peripheral. “At least come down in more clothes than that, try to make it a _little_ less obvious.” Carl scowled down at his hands. He was happy for them, truly. They deserved something nice in their lives for a change. It's just been _two months_ since the wedding and the walls are thin and he was getting sick of having to see and hear it every goddamn day.

They pull apart, look down at each other, look back up. Mickey shrugs as Ian nods and trudges back up the stairs. Mickey pads into the kitchen. “Ay, don’t get pissy with us just cause you lost a fuckin’ fight.” Mickey snapped at him.

Carl absently realized he was still holding the bottle to his chin. He rolled his eyes, growling a “fuck off.”

Mickey chuckled dryly as he sat down at the table with his own beer, which did nothing to calm Carl’s growing annoyance. “Suck it up, cop. You're gonna get punched a lot more when you're actually on the beat down here. Hell, _I’ve_ given a cop a bigger bruise than that.” Mickey chuckled again.

Carl fixed him with a glare which was interrupted when Ian threw a shirt at Mickey’s face. “Mick we really gotta do laundry, these are the last two cleanish shirts I could find.” Mickey gave it a sniff, frowning a bit as Ian turned towards Carl “Happy, dickwad?”

Carl looked over at him and shrugged, which made Ian roll his eyes. “We were coming down here to make dinner, you can be the tie-breaker since everyone else in bed already. Quesadillas or grilled cheese and soup?”

Carl considered his options for a minute, “We got chicken?” Ian turned and opened the cabinet, pulling a can of chicken off the top shelf and nodding at Carl. “I vote for quesadillas then.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair a bit, watching as Mickey broke out into a grin with an _I told you so_ look on his face. Ian scowled, muttering a _fine_ as he broke out the tortillas and the cheese.

They settled into silence, Mickey and Carl sitting at the table drinking their beers while Ian tried his best at quesadillas. The sound of sizzling cheese filled the space as Ian spilled some on the burner. Ian was a fucking _messy_ cook, a fact no one seemed to remember until they were stuck cleaning up after him.

A few minutes later, a slightly charred tortilla filled with mostly melted cheese was placed in front of him, breaking Carl’s eyes away from the window. He mumbled thanks as Mickey kissed Ian on the cheek, both of them smiling shyly. Carl rolled his eyes again and tucked in.

Ian cleared his throat, his mouth still a little full as he opened it. “So, police academy still goin’ good?”

“Haven’t been kicked out yet, have I?” Carl snapped. Ian glared at him and Mickey raised his eyebrows, mouth around his quesadilla.

Ian huffed when Carl’s face stayed scowling, “I’m just trying to make conversation dickhead, don't gotta bite my head off about it.”

Carl suddenly wasn't hungry anymore. He drained his beer, standing up pretty quick despite his aching muscles. “I’m goin' to bed. Keep it down tonight, I gotta get up at 6.” He turned his back on the other men, grabbing his duffle and shuffling up the stairs. He heard bits of a huffed conversation but didn't care enough to actually tune in. Carl threw his duffle on the floor, grabbed some fresh clothes, and headed for the shower.

The good thing about taking showers at night when you have a full house? Peace, quiet, and hot water. The temperature was a little more on the boiling side than he would usually set it, but he focused on the slight burn as he rolled out his shoulders under the water, head blissfully empty. He took a little longer than he usually did, waiting until he didn't feel quite so tense before doing a final rinse and stepping out, something he would definitely hear about from Debbie when she got the water bill.

His pale skin was slightly pink from the burn and the cool air of the house made him get goosebumps when he stepped out of the bathroom. He headed towards his empty room, collapsing on the bed when he got there.

The streetlight outside their house was actually working for once, an effect of the slow but steady gentrification of their neighborhood. Carl remembers when the light never worked. He was six or seven, couldn't sleep, stuck looking up above Ian’s bed, back when it was the three of them in this one tiny room. The blinds were rarely closed since Ian liked to wake up with the sun (stupid morning people), so he remembers seeing the shadows cast by the moon on the ceiling. They used to scare him a little, looking kind of eery, like something out of those horror movies Lip watched all the time. But then he would tune into both his brothers’ breathing. It was slow and even. They were fast asleep. If his big brothers were asleep, then nothing was wrong. They would let him know, protect him too probably. So when Carl looks at the shadows again, they start to look more peaceful than scary, and he’s lulled to sleep by the even sounds of their breathing.

Tonight, when he gazes at the ceiling, there are no moon shadows, no sounds of breathing beside or above him. Just a soft, yellow glow and silence. Carl doesn't know why he hates it all of a sudden, the quiet. He’d been pretty stoked when Lip fucked off to college for a bit, finally getting to claim the loft bed. Ian had fucked off for a little too. Both of them came and went a couple more times, sometimes with other people. Carl didn't really care honestly. He’d seen everything you could see by the time he was twelve, how could you not in a house that packed? But then Ian fucked off again to fucking _prison_ of all places and came back with the guy Carl always knew in his bones would show back up and finally stay. Then Lip fucked off again, this time with Tami and Freddie in a house of their own. Carl’s not sure if that one’s gonna last, Tami didn't quite get the Southside way of living yet, but he finds himself hoping it does. Lip deserves some stability and Freddie deserves a dad who actually cares about him.

Even Liam fucked off, saying he needs space for himself. Carl gets it, he went through his own identity crisis once. At least Liam’s hasn't involved drugs and guns. There’s still time, but Carl thinks the chances are pretty slim. Liam’s pretty soft compared to the rest of his siblings, a product of being The Last Gallagher. The older siblings fought tooth and nail to make sure Liam was babied like he should be. Hell, Liam’s probably even got a chance to make it out of the Southside. It's not as ingrained in him as it is the other five. Well, four.

God, Carl misses Fiona. She used to call all the time, updating them on her new life. It was bittersweet. She had promised she would never leave them, then she did, but it was time. When she talked on the phone, Carl always heard a smile in her voice. The last couple of months she was at home, well, he hadn't seen one in a while. It sucks she left, that she's probably never gonna come back and visit (“if I visit, I might not leave again” she always says) and it kinda sucks she didn't take him with her. Carl probably wouldn't have actually wanted to go, he likes his life here, but it would've been nice to have an option.

So that leaves him here, in an empty room, staring at some light on a ceiling, in utter silence.

Why is he suddenly thinking about this shit? He’s never been one for introspection, head pretty much empty since the day he was born. Maybe that's cause he always had noise to distract him.

He picks up his phone, squinting at the harsh light.

1:15 am.

God, he's _f_ _ucked_.

He's tired, bone tired. Has been for the past couple of months. But sleep was getting harder and harder to come by. The house was getting quieter as the days went on. Soon, who knows? He might be the only one left in it. Monica’s dead. Frank’s on death’s door. Fiona’s never coming back. Lip’s got a family. Ian and Mickey talk about getting their own place. Debbie’s practically itching for independence. Liam’s been distancing himself for a while, almost as smart as Lip and with the drive to actually follow through with getting out.

So that leaves Carl, alone in the house he grew up in, had so many firsts in, bought with drug money.

Carl scrubs his hands over his face, checks the time again.

1:32 am.

Maybe he’ll get more tired after a run.

He exhales long and slow. Sitting up, he grabs his running shoes. He doesn't even like running, but he remembers hearing Ian get up sometimes, cracking open his eyes to see shoes on his feet and tired determination on his face. Carl sees if he can mimic that look, hopes maybe he can fool himself for a minute, shake this feeling off.

He moves as quietly as he can in the old, creaky house. Ian’s been wanting them to actually lock the doors lately, something to do with Mickey’s miraculously shorter sentence, so he holds his jangly house keys tight in his palm. The jagged edges keep him a little more focused on the task at hand.

He’s down the back stairs, not really focusing that hard anymore now that he's by the back door. His hand’s on the doorknob, turning-

“Carl?”

He hates the way he jumps, jiggling the handle, curses fast, and not that quiet. He hates the way he feels like he's been caught doing something bad. It’s not sneaking out if you're an adult for god sake, plus it's not like anyone truly cared about that when he was younger.

He turns, seeing Mickey sitting on the couch with a puzzled look. The lamp’s on, he's got a book on his lap, glasses on his face. He looks like an old man. _Since when does Mickey have glasses_?

Mickey pushes his glasses up on his forehead, closes the book. “What’re you doin' man? It's late.” Mickey's voice carries pretty well across the quiet of the house.

Carl feels himself get defensive before he can stop it, walls raising up a bit. “Can ask you the same thing.” He mumbles. Mickey hears him, he sighs.

“I don't sleep well when Ian’s not here. Reading usually chills me out” Mickey mumbles back, looking kind of embarrassed.

Carl forgets Ian has to work nights sometimes. His new P.O. was able to find him an EMT job that wasn't a scam, which Ian had gushed about for like a week. He never got the full story of Ian’s old P.O., everyone insisting it didn't matter, the story was long, blah blah blah. It's fine, no one tells him stuff, he's used to it.

Carl’s still kinda shocked by Mickey’s honesty, so all he gets out is “Huh.” Mickey smirks a little.

“Your turn. Whatcha up to?” Mickey’s head quirks a little, kind of like a dog.

Carl sighs a little. Tit-for-tit or whatever the saying is. “I was overthinking up there. Thought a run might clear it out a little.” He knocks on his head with his knuckles. Carl waits for some kinda joke about him and thinking. He thinks it's gonna be a doozy when Mickey looks pensive for a minute.

“Want company?”

Carl’s shocked for a second. “ _Why_?” He blurts, his whisper sounding harsh.

Now Mickey’s defensive, his face hardens a bit. Christ, he's fucking sensitive. “Whatever, forget it. But you shouldn't run through this fuckin’ hood with a cop shirt on, dumbass. You’ll get jumped soon as you walk out the fuckin’ door.” Carl’s always surprised by Mickey’s ability to fit “fuck” in almost every sentence.

He looks down at his shirt, knows Mickey’s right since he probably would've jumped a cop as a teen, then shrugs it off and pulls a different one out of the pile on the floor. It stinks a little but he's literally about to run so whatever.

Carl could just leave, should probably cause he's shitty company right now, but he's a bit curious despite himself.

“I didn't think you ran old man.” He smirks a little when Mickey frowns.

“What else do you think there is to do in prison?” Carl shrugs, _fair enough_. “I could probably outlast you any day of the week, Cadet Kelly.”

Carl balks at the nickname, then grins. “Okay, you're on Prison Break.”

Mickey smirks a little, gets up to get his shoes from by the front, then meets Carl at the back. They walk down the porch steps. “What time you think we’ll be gettin' back?” Mickey asks, gruff voice a little louder now that they're outside the quiet house. Carl hears loud tailpipes, people yelling, ambulances, birds. The noise is nice.

“I don't have a time set, just gonna run ’til I don't feel like it. You can leave whenever.” Carl grumbles. His defenses feel like they back up, he's not really sure why.

Mickey smirks again. “Told ya I can outlast ya, fucker. But Ian gets off at five so I’ll probably head home around then.”

Carl smirks this time. “God, you are so pussy-whipped.” He mumbles as he suddenly takes off running. He hears Mickey’s feet catching up to him, suddenly appearing by his side. Mickey grumbles something about _good dick_ and _you would too_. Carl tunes him out, not wanting to hear another word about his brother’s dick. But it's unnecessary as Mickey stops talking, instead running quietly beside him. Carl tunes in again, this time listening to the sounds of the Southside again.

It's soothing.

He doesn't think, he just runs. A bit of a faster pace than he would usually set, but he wants to see if Mickey can actually keep up. He does.

After a while, he slows his pace a little. Mickey follows suit, staying silent.

Carl takes in the relatively quiet city around him. He's walked this way thousands of times. This time, he takes in the changes. Some of the houses look more dilapidated than he remembers. Others are a lot more done up, freshly painted with manicured lawns and shit. He thinks back to a time when Frank enlisted him to help run off the lesbians. He hates that the only kinda good memories he has with his father also involve scams and being used.

They end up by the old baseball field. Mickey’s eyes stay on it for a while. Carl kinda wants to ask but doesn't.

They go under the L, past his old school, by some Frank’s old blackout spots. Carl feels himself start to get weary with the weight of memories. Nothing’s necessarily good or bad, just kinda heavy. It kinda gets bad when they pass by the house where Nick-

He's tired. He still speeds up to run past it on instinct, leaving Mickey in the dust. Mickey huffs, running a little faster to try and catch up. Carl sprints. He didn't think he could, muscles burning a bit, but then his head goes kinda fuzzy. The memory of the boy, the mom’s voice, Nick telling him to leave. It carries him. That leads way to the gang shit. Trying to get out. Being stuck. More fear fills his body. He hears feet behind him, slamming the pavement. His brain gets fuzzier. He hears his name. He runs faster.

Suddenly he's on his back porch, chest heaving. His cheeks are cold. He touches them, they feel wet. Why is he crying? He’s nineteen why the fuck-

He hears feet slamming the pavement again. His head snaps up, but he still feels stuck.

“Jesus fuck, Carl!” Mickey’s chest is puffing in and out with alarming force as he tries to catch his breath. “Why the fuck did you take-“ Mickey looks at him. Anger leaves his eyes, his face goes kind of soft, he looks nervous. “Fuck, kid.” He waits a minute, gestures to the step next to Carl. “Can I sit?”

Carl shrugs. His brain is still fuzzy. God, he shouldn't have left the fucking house.

Mickey lifts a fake plant out of a pot by the back door. He pulls out a baggie. Carl vaguely smells tobacco. A lighter sparks, he sees it out of the corner of his eye. Mickey inhales. Exhales. “Here.” He gestures at Carl. Carl’s fingers are kinda numb but he sees Mickey place the cigarette in them and thinks he can feel it. He takes a drag. Inhale. Shaky exhale.

His throat feels kinda hoarse, he notices. He takes another drag. Inhale. Exhale.

He passes it back. He hears Mickey breathe in more smoke. The sound is weirdly soothing.

It’s quiet for a little. Mickey shifts on the step. “Do you wanna tell me what the fuck’s goin' on or do you just wanna fuckin’ sit here?” Mickey’s voice is softer than usual. Carl kinda wants to chuckle about it but can't make himself do it.

“I dunno.” Huh, so his voice is hoarse. That sucks.

He sees Mickey nod once, lighting up another cigarette. He sucks in a breath. “Don't tell Ian about this, he thinks I’m quitting.”

Carl snorts softly. “No, he doesn’t. You walk in smelling like an ashtray every day.”

Mickey huffs a small laugh. “Well old habits die hard, aight fuckhead?” Carl takes the cig back for another drag, holds it in for a little.

He’s silent for a while. He wonders if Mickey’s gonna get up and leave. Mickey doesn’t.

Carl sighs, his body feels heavy. “I- one of the houses we passed. Something bad happened there.” He really oversimplified that. Mickey shifts a little.

“Bad stuff happens in a lot of houses around here.” Mickey’s voice is still softer than usual. He sounds a little haunted. Carl knows being a Milkovich isn’t sunshine and rainbows. He shouldn't unload this on Mickey, he's probably got enough shit already- “You gonna enlighten me or what?” Mickey’s a little gruffer again.

Carl reaches for the cig again. He doesn't remember when Mickey took it back but in a flash, it's back between his fingers.

Another puff. Whatever, he doesn't care what Mickey Milkovich the multiple offender thinks. If he wants to know, so be it.

“I made a friend in juvie.” He chances a look at Mickey, a question on his face. “Not _that_ kinda friend, asshole. An actual friend.” Mickey smirks a little, taking another drag of the cig. Carl continues. “He’d been in there for a while, was getting released around the same time as me. He didn't have anywhere to go, so I told him to come stay with me.” He breathes out again. “It was good for a while. Fiona _hated_ it, which was kinda fun too. Nick helped me with my deals n’ shit since the gang I was working for wanted me to do more than I was before I went in. Nick was huge, helped with intimidation, made a lot of money.”

That part was kinda fun, acting like some high roller, finally having what felt like a best friend. It's all sorta ironic considering his current desired profession.

“Nick- he wanted this one bike so bad. Literally, all he wanted, didn't care about anything else. That's why he was in juvie in the first place. He had the bike, his dad sold it, and he killed him over it.” He sees Mickey’s eyebrows raise a little, but he stays blessedly silent. Carl probably couldn't get this off his chest if he interrupted. He didn't know why he suddenly needed it said, but he did. Maybe cause he hadn’t talked about it since Fiona.

“Obviously I had the cash, so I bought him the bike. I wanted a car because Nick could technically drive and it seemed cooler, but Nick was fine with the bike. Whatever. Then, when all that shit with the house went down, some kid stole Nick’s bike.” Mickey stills, probably guessing where it's going. “I got a car, thinking that would be enough. It wasn't. We drove past the kid on the bike one day. I told him to leave it. I thought he would. But, he went anyway when I left for a little. He-“ Carl felt his throat close a little but he willed it to stay open. The image in his head he thought he buried came back up, stayed at the front of his mind, torturing him. He chokes a little. “God, there was so much blood. The kid was like ten. Nick told me to go, he just sat there on the porch, waiting for the cops, while the mom screamed her head off.”

“I wanted out. I didn't wanna see any more of that. Fiona’s ex got me out. He gave up a lot for it. I never got to return the favor, but he did break her for a bit, so I guess it's cool.”

“That why you wanna be a cop so bad?” Mickey’s voice is soft again.

“Probably. I don't want anyone else to go through that. Plus getting to beat people up within the confines of the law is pretty sick.” Carl laughs but there’s little humor.

“Fair enough.” Mickey shifts a little. “I get what you mean, about runnin’ drugs. It’s always fun until it’s not. Ian tell you I rolled on a Mexican cartel to get out?”

Carl looks at Mickey in shock, eases back, and looks away. “Nah, Ian doesn't tell me shit dude.”

Mickey sighs and nods. “Well, that's why I’m keepin’ a low profile, just in case. Dunno if they’re gonna want revenge or whatever.”

Carl nods and they lapse into silence again.

“This shit why you were so pissy earlier?”

Carl usually likes Mickey’s bluntness, but not so much aimed at him. He looks up for a second.

“Nah that’s other shit rollin' around up here.” Carl sighs.

“Well, I smoked three cigs so I’m gonna be up for a bit.”

Carl hesitates. “It's gonna make me sound like a fuckin’ girl, all in my feelings 'n shit.”

Mickey laughs lightly. “You saw me go bridezilla about a fuckin’ wedding, all in my feelings 'n shit. You think I’m gonna judge you?”

Carl side-eyes Mickey who throws his hands up in surrender. He huffs another breath.

“It’s just- everybody’s moving on and I feel stuck.” Mickey’s eyebrows furrow. God, it feels weird to say feelings shit out loud, even more, embarrassing to have to explain it. He thinks back to his list from earlier. “Monica’s dead. Frank’s dying soon. Fiona’s gone. Lip’s getting his shit together. Ian’s got you. Debbie’s got Franny and maybe Sandy, I don't really know what's up with that. And Liam’s got college. Yeah, I got the police academy, but I mean soon everyone’s gonna be gone and I’ll be stuck in this shithole by myself.” His throat kinda closes again. He looks down at his fingers, picking at the nail beds a bit.

Mickey’s voice is soft again. Carl hates that he keeps liking it. “Kid, we’re not gonna just leave you high and dry. That’s not what families do.” Carl shudders out an exhale. “Yeah, Ian and I want our own place, something that's ours, y’know? But it's not like you wouldn’t come with if you wanted to. Plus, with our shitty way of handling money, that’s not gonna be for a long ass fuckin’ time.” Mickey laughs lightly. Carl feels his shoulders loosen. A little weight lifted, more tension bleeding out.

“Damn, Mickey, who would’ve thought you’d be good at emotional shit?” Carl actually laughs, chest feeling lighter than it has in a while.

Mickey laughs too. “Hey man, it's news to me too.”

A silence stretches over them. Carl finally feels his eyes droop a little. Mickey tries to stifle it a little but he yawns. Carl pulls out his phone.

4:13 am.

“Jesus. Fuck, guess I’m callin' in sick.” Mickey whistles lowly. Carl works himself up to standing. He’s fuckin’ sore, feels like a pussy for complaining earlier. Mickey stands and his knees pop. Carl laughs at him and Mickey flips him off. They make their way inside, the house still settled in the early morning hours. Carl listens though, hears the old fridge hum, the sink drip, the toilet run. He hears the wind and the birds and the road noise. When he makes his way upstairs, he hears the stairs creak as he climbs up after Mickey. Mickey works their shitty door open, and before he slips inside Carl hears himself speak.

“Thank you.”

Mickey stills, looks up at him, nods once, and Carl turns around to his room. He shuts the door softly, hears Mickey pull his closed. Carl sits on the bed, tugging his shoes and sweaty clothes off. He lies back and listens for a while to the soft noises of the Southside.

The light on the ceiling flickers. His eyes widen and he turns his head just in time to see the street lamp burn out.

When he looks back at the ceiling, he smiles. It's bathed in moonlight.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading please tell me your thoughts I love feedback


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